End Times: The Last Time
by DearlyStar
Summary: "Everyone always underestimates me. I see it in how they look at me, how they move around me, hear it in how they speak to me. I might not fly, I might only crawl along the ground. But sometimes, being low to the ground has advantages. In the end, who'll be the one to burn first? Those closest to the sun." Peter Pettigrew visits the Potters. One-shot. JPLE. End Times Arc: story IV.


_This is the fourth story of my End Times series. This one was the hardest to write, from the viewpoint of Peter Pettigrew during the visit the weekend before Harry's first birthday, as outlined in Lily's letter in Deathly Hallows. Peter is such a complex character, and so completely different from the others (and from myself) that he was a real challenge. Enjoy, and please review if you have praise or constructive criticism._

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The garden gate is always open. They never lock it. Why would they need to? The enchantments around it are too good, and they would be alerted in an instant. She is excellent at protective charms, and has the whole of the Order backing her, providing extra protection. He is no slouch either, but he's more a duelist than anything. Not a strategist. A soldier. The guard dog in case someone breaches the defenses. The thing he was the most adept at was hexing others. I'd seen it first hand on countless occasions.

I pause with my hand on the gate. In the July heat, I'm sweating and miserable. My hands slip a little when I push it open. It creaks accusingly at me, the grinding of rust like nails on slate. I can't do this. The gate clangs back closed. I turn to walk away, and then freeze.

If I do this, I'm safe. If I do this, I don't die.

If I do this, he'll reward me.

I don't like being here. I hate this place, and I hate what is happening in this world. But I'm here with a job to do, and jobs like this are best done and over with. Besides, information is the cheapest thing to gather and sell. Without selling, I go out of business. And these days, that would mean a lot worse than bankruptcy.

Wand out, I push the garden gate open again, hear the grating noise, feel the resistance of the charms put in place to protect the inhabitants. The charms permit me through. I've passed muster, apparently. That's one of the loopholes: they trust me. They trust me, and it burns like a million blisters. I hate them for it. At the same time, it makes this that much easier. They don't suspect a thing. Then again, he was always as thick as two stones together when it came to empathy. He was too busy being wrapped up in himself or cursing other people to bother understanding anyone else.

I walk up the tiny garden path, and hesitate again at the door, slipping my wand back into my pocket. The pressure is unbearable. Better get this done quickly. I knock, almost hoping that nobody will be home.

No such luck.

She opens the door, and sees me. A smile spreads over her face. I can't look her in the eyes. "Wormy! We weren't expecting...Oh, hang on a moment… James!" she calls behind her into the house. "Wormy's here!"

I never liked that nickname. In fact, I loathe it. But when all I could manage to transform into was a rat, that was what I became. Wormtail. Wormy. It makes me sound insignificant, unpleasant, unintelligent. Now, though, it's useful. They have no idea how much I know about here, about this place, and about how it's protected. Everyone always underestimates me. I see it in how they look at me, how they move around me, hear it in how they speak to me. I might not fly, I might only crawl along the ground. But sometimes, being low to the ground has advantages. In the end, who'll be the one to burn first? Those closest to the sun.

I pull myself back to the present just as a voice rings from somewhere behind the threshold.

"Excellent," I hear a slightly self-satisfied smile on his face. I can almost see him, smirking, even though he's clearly across the house. "Let me corrall our offspring." I hear small, high-pitched squeal and giggles, and a heavy pair of feet moving somewhere in the house. I feel a slight stabbing pain in my gut. "If this is a bad time, I can-" I start, but she's ushering me in before I can step out of range, placing a gentle hand under my elbow that for all the world feels more like a vise-grip, guiding my into the tiny sitting room.

"Let me go relieve James of Harry," she says, her tone unbearably happy. "Then we can all visit. Would you like a cup of tea? Wouldn't take a moment."

"I-I mean, if…" I nearly bite my tongue, staring at a point behind her that's level with her knees. I never really wanted to do this to her. She was never the problem. Maybe a little condescending, but she was that way with anyone, not particularly with me. But I need to be careful, thinking like that. If they start to suspect, I'm a dead man. If they don't, I might be a dead man anyway. But I'll take the better odds.

"It's no trouble!" she chirps, still smiling at me. She turns on her heel and moves into the kitchen, through a doorway and around a corner. As she goes, I see that she moves like someone holding a heavy weight, the smile slowly becoming hollow the further she moves from the room. It is a profound relief when I don't have to look at her anymore. I look around. Nothing's changed. I sit in one of the yellow armchairs.

This house is small. Nothing like I'd expect him to purchase for his family, being independently wealthy. He and his money and his family. He had always been big-headed at school about it. I didn't have much, growing up. In school, I idolized him, wanted to become a perfect copy of him. The way he moved, the way he spoke. The way he attracted all the girls. It was so easy, so natural. I always felt unnatural around them, like a shoddy clay marble in a jar of pearls. They never really helped that. In some way, I felt like the odd man out. It hurt, feeling like that; the butt of every joke between us, and the last to hear anything from anyone.

My resolve congeals like blood. Hadn't I managed this once before? A few weeks ago, it was the McKinnons, too, that I had to inform on. Information is the currency in which I deal these days, weaving my nest more securely against the storm. But there would be no further information to gather about the McKinnons. I did what I was ordered to do, securing my bodily safety against the avalanche of inevitable defeat. At least, for the time being. There had been no other way but to lay information about them, to earn my place in the coming world of blood and power and status. I swallow absently, staring around, trying to distract myself from thinking too much. It will just tip me past balance. I breathe to relax, and just as I'm exhaling, he comes in, a huge grin plastered on his face. I stand up a little too quickly, and return his hug. We both sit down.

"Wormy, good of you to drop by!" he exclaims. "I was hoping someone would come by soon. We haven't had anyone by since last week, to bring us the news." He lets out a heavy sigh. "Lily was a mess. You know how she and Marlene were at school."

"Yeah, I know," I answer, a bit lamely, trying to sound sincere as I fight back a wince. I stare at my knees. Thank goodness we're on a sober subject.

"Hey, there was nothing we could have done," James says. I feel his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt at comfort. "Nobody knew that he'd find them, they were given the same protections as us here. You-Know-Who must have had an informant. Do we have any idea who?"

I blanche for a split second, before my brain remembers to work. "No, there wasn't a clue. There were a lot of us who knew where she was. It wasn't like she was completely off the map," I say, congratulating myself for a reasonable response. It is true. Nobody has a clue. I'm good at that. Better than these people ever were. But then, I guess it's easier when your targets trust you. I almost feel… no. I can't, because that means certain death.

A movement to my left makes me jump, but it's so common for me that he just chuckles. I realizes that she's come back into the room, hovering a tea tray in front of her with a pot and three cups. It glides gracefully onto the coffee table as she follows behind it, wand in one hand, guiding the tray in for a landing, and a small boy on her opposite hip. The boy is watching the tray with an expression of puzzled enthusiasm. He looks over at his mother's other hand and grabs for her wand. She chuckles and extends it out of reach as the tray clinks down in front of me.

The boy sees his father and reaches out his arms. I can't take my eyes off of him. This is the last thing I needed today. He is so much bigger than he was the last time I was here, so much more vital. His mother puts him down. He puts one foot in front of the other, clutching a chair, and then the table, before he reaches his father with a giggle. From the safety of his father's lap, he peers at me. His eyes are the mirror of his mother's. He looks at me, and my heart sinks all the way to the depths of hell. I wish the rest of me would follow suit, that the earth would swallow me up, and hide me from the penetrating and oddly focused gaze of Harry James Potter. No, from _him_. I can't be thinking like that. It'll only make things harder.

Am I imagining that he is accusing me, in his own, childish way? Those eyes seem to burn holes in me. It puts me in mind of another set of eyes, slit like a snake's, staring at me in a cold, white face from across a table. Travers and Mulciber were the ones who set this up. I'm sure that they congratulate themselves daily, but in the end, I'm the important one. I still feel them "escorting" me from Diagon Alley, after "inviting" me to Mulciber's home in Kent. I knew I had no choice. They know how to find me, and they would have killed me, had I opposed them. Inside, I'm relieved that I'm only passing information. Information is safe. It doesn't actually cause harm, injury, or spilling of blood by itself. In the end, I'm not killing anyone. Just watching the boy for anything unusual, to report back.

Tea is a quiet thing. She sits with us, a steaming cup clasped between her hands. She looks drawn, like she's spent the last few days in abject misery. I realize that they won't be able to leave and go to McKinnon's funeral. It's probably eating her alive. They had been best friends in school. I remember seeing them by the lake together on sunny days, when we all had little to care about but exams and classes. They had always been better than me. I drink quickly, speaking as little as I possibly can without seeming off. The burnt tongue is a small price to pay to escape this room. I look at my feet most of the time as we all make idle chatter. I can tell she's watching me, I can feel the concern coming from her. I resent it. I don't want her concern, or her pity. I want to leave.

When I've drained my cup, I look up at the man who was my friend. He's saying something about the boy on his knees.

"-and he's already showing the signs, Wormy. I came in and saw him floating his blocks around. They were only a few inches off the ground, of course. But I just can't believe how quickly he's shown that much ability." He grins proudly, patting his son on the back. The boy is reaching for a sugar lump. One of the lumps in the bowl, at the very top, inexplicably lifts an inch or so from the bowl, before plunking down on the tray.

Damnit. I watch his father pick up the sugar lump, and hand it to the boy, despite his mother's admonishment.

There is no way this boy is not going to be at least a decent wizard. Not even a year old, and already showing the signs, if not the ability. I have no choice. I've just seen it. There's no way to unsee it. It will be extracted whether I choose to give it willingly or no. There is no point in fighting it. This is unusual.

But it's just information. That's all. Just information. What would the Dark Lord care about a boy who can levitate a sugar lump? He isn't launching projectiles, or able to fly without a broom. He's not speaking yet, not inventing incantations. He's positively no threat at all. I look at him, shoving the treat greedily into his mouth, his fat cheeks working as he chews. He isn't staring anymore. I'm relieved. He's really just an ordinary child, after all.

"Yes, he's quite something. Looks just like you," I add for good measure, as the child drools a little onto his front. His father passes him over, and his mother wipes his face. In that moment, I look at her. She's utterly besotted over this tiny version of her husband. Her face lightens, and softens. She looks up at her husband, who receives the same glowing look. I am suddenly fighting the inexplicable urge to be sick. This isn't right. I stand, and the man across from me stands up too.

"Leaving already?" he asks, concern in his face.

"Yeah," I reply. I'm trying for rueful, and I think I just manage it. "I just…"

"Hey, it's ok. I get it," he says, looking at me with patronizing smile. He and his family walk me to the door. He gives me a warm hug, which I awkwardly return, trying to keep from being sick on the carpet. His wife does the same, one-armed. The baby grabs a fist of my hair and tugs. As I break away from her, the baby stares at me again. I look him in the eyes until I can't anymore.

"Don't be a stranger, ok?" says his father. One could almost mistake his tone for brotherly.

I nod, turn and pace back out over the threshold without looking back. I walk until I hear the door click. Then I sprint to the gate, and get past the charms just in time. I'm sick into the bushes. I can't do this again. As I prepare to apparate to Kent, I swear to myself that this is the last time.

But I'm lying.


End file.
